


A Marriage of Equals

by do_not_confess



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Albert being a special nerdy snowflake, Brotherly Affection, F/M, Historical Romance, Initial Awkwardness, Missing Scenes, Mutual Pining, Piano Duets, Vicbert - Freeform, real life otp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8832418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/do_not_confess/pseuds/do_not_confess
Summary: But, she has to admit, at least to herself, there are passages in a duet where the second voice has the melody, and her playing sounds a little too prominent. She has difficulty blending her part into the background, to be the supporting harmony. Especially with Albert.





	1. Songs without Words

**Author's Note:**

> A potpourri of missing moments and true historical tidbits woven together with the ITV show canon. 
> 
> Translation of the (few and far between) German passages and references as well as source materials in the notes below.  
> Includes references to the Moderato piano piece from Mendelssohn's cycle "Songs without Words" (Op 19, No. 4) that Albert plays in the drawing room in Episode 4 "The Clockwork Prince" as well as poems by Lord Byron ("She walks in beauty") and Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff ("Mondnacht").

He plays the piano with more feeling than she remembers.

She used to only resent her cousin for his technical skill, the grace of his arpeggio, the lightness of his touch on the keys, the fact that the span of his hand allowed him, a gangly boy of seventeen, to play the chords with so much more ease than her. That was when she first met him and she could barely tolerate him for the fact that Mama kept pushing him at her like a new doll she did not want.

But now the unsure boy has grown into an even taller, slightly less gangly young man. He even towers over his older brother Ernest, shoulders broad, handsome maybe, but his profile is sharpened by the severity of his expression. He is vexingly solemn and serious, although, she has to admit, very accomplished in all the arts she takes pride in herself: a gifted musician, a skilled draughtsman and watercolourist. He is, of course, more widely read, more worldly than her, having completed his Grand Tour and having studied at university, but those things are a man’s prerogative. Victoria is not so foolish as to envy him what her sex denies her. And everything Albert attempts betrays the care and diligence which was instilled in him through his education, which is rather dull.

His English, to her delight, leaves a lot to be desired. But he plays the piano oh so beautifully.

She loves Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Schubert, the same as him, has mastered nearly all the pieces she enjoys, impresses with speed and deftness, but she is no match to him in interpretation.

When Albert sits down to play the Moderato from _Songs without Words_ , having snubbed Lord M’s invitation to sit down for a diverting game of cards, it’s as if she understands for the first time how the music is meant to sound. She listens, and she forgets the advantage of her hand, the symbols on the playing card turning into meaningless cyphers.

She remembers the score of the Moderato, played it from sight once and dismissed it as too easy and simple when she’d first got the new Mendelssohn volume from Germany, had passed it over for the more demanding pieces in the collection. She likes a challenge, after all.

Now, as she listens to Albert play, she knows there is genius in its simplicity, a deep melancholic feeling she could not have aspired to herself, something she could imitate surely, but not come up with on her own. She knows it to be something true and real, as it echoes something in her own soul.

It is _quite_ maddening that he should surpass her in this.

He never seems to smile, but when he’s at the piano as he is now, his eyes and his mouth soften from their near permanent scowl and he looks like a faraway dreamer, lost in his own thought.

If Victoria closes her eyes while she listens to him, she can sometimes forget that it is Albert who is playing and enjoy it for the beauty itself.

This beauty of course, is more difficult to endure when he lectures her like a schoolmaster.

“ _Sanfter, Cousine_ ,” he admonishes, when she hits on a chord too hard while they’re playing a duet. “You should relax your shoulders more. My teacher in Coburg always told me that to play well, the whole body should be engaged.”

She does not take his directions – who does he think he is, she does not need another person who thinks they can tell her what to do, how to sit, think– so she sends him an icy glare as she counts them in, setting a speed she hopes he’ll find difficult to follow, though in this too he seems intent to disappoint. She can’t help but pull back her shoulders however, and the chords sing full and clear, but without the previous shrillness.

When they play together, Albert does not mind giving her the primo part, either because he was told this would please her or because he can tell she has difficulties with her pianissimos at speed.

Both possibilities are equally infuriating.

But, she has to admit, at least to herself, there are passages in a duet where the second voice has the melody, and her playing sounds a little too prominent. She has difficulty blending her part into the background, to be the supporting harmony. Especially with Albert. It is peculiar, however, that they never seem to have any problems with timing, his hand crossing under hers with ease to take the higher notes. He responds to her changes in tempo and volume effortlessly, as if all his focus is on her in their playing, as if his only task was to make her shine. There’s a thrill in being in tandem with another human being she so seldom gets to enjoy. It is not dissimilar to when she shares a look and a smile with her dear Lord M. The feeling of being understood, implicitly.

Of course afterwards he always tells her to practice more, and the spell is broken. 

\--

When they dance together, for the first time, it’s different. She finds when he’s looking at her so intently, it is easy to surrender to his guidance, for once. What other choice does a woman have in a waltz?

There is a kind of blind trust in leaning back into his arms, while he suspends her in the momentum of their turning, his hand a gentle guiding presence on her waist. It's the most wondrous pleasure, to be wheeled about by a force outside of herself and she knows in that moment that she can follow his lead and not be led astray.

Lehzen had told her it would be difficult to waltz with someone so tall, but Victoria can’t say she agrees, it’s as if they’re in perfect equilibrium, her gaze drawn upwards to him, him peering down at her.

After a few turns, he speaks. He admits he is shy to dance. “It’s hard sometimes, to find the rhythm.”

The admission makes her soften towards him.

“Not with you,” he whispers, with the seriousness she has come to find both infuriating and endearing, if only he would come to admire her, a little. Surely a woman looking for a husband deserves as much from a suitor?

Maybe it’s that need within her, to have Albert look at her with approval, which makes her give him her corsage. Or maybe it’s that he spoke of his mother to her, shared that tender memory, when he so rarely reveals anything about his feelings. It is a silly gesture to give it to him as a token, something a lover might do in a novel to win his lady’s heart, but Albert does not seem to think so. Very few things are silly to him, and she finds she does not mind it this time.

When he cuts into his shirt and places the gardenia close to his heart, his eyes searing into her, she feels stunned, unsteady, transformed.

It’s as if they’ve seen each other as equals for the very first time.

\--

At Windsor, she tries to impress him with the paintings she has been told he might enjoy, with the grandeur of the woodland, but it seems all he wants to do is find fault with her and the things she holds dear – her friends, Lord M, her courtly life.

He is so impertinent, in his stares, his touches and his advice he gives out when she does not care for it, not from him.

For a moment in the forest, when he was touching her hair, she thought he might… something unspoken had passed between them. He’d looked so handsome with his hair wild, his shirtsleeve torn, and she’d caught a glimpse of the man his brother had described as being worth ten of him.

But then, of course, he had to go and ruin it with his ideas for her improvement and his complete disregard for manners or decorum. Her friendship with Lord M is none of his concern! She remembers with vivid anger how he had left her standing there like a fool. As if _she_ were the one pursuing him, as if _she_ had been slighted!

She does not prefer flattery to truth, but the man she is to marry must be able to see the good in her, at least.

\--

She happens upon him in her library, lost in the pages of a book.

He’s only in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his long form folded into the armchair in a slouch that seems so unlike him, when he usually carries himself so stiffly. His coat is slung on a pouf by his feet. It makes him look approachable, less intimidating, so she decides to stay.

It is her library, after all.

He is so lost in his reading, it is only when the edges of her petticoat nearly brush the tip of his shoes that he looks up at her.

“Victoria,” he says, getting up and straightening his waistcoat. He stares at her, his expression unreadable.

“Albert,” she nods in greeting, wary of how quickly their exchanges may change from pleasant to heated.

“What are you reading?” she asks, extending her hand to the leather bound volume in his hands. The sound of her question rings in her ear, bordering on rudeness. She so often fails to make her requests sound less like demands.

Albert doesn’t seem to mind though, as he moves to stand by her side, showing her the spine of the book so she may read the title.

“Lord Byron. The Duchess of Sutherland recommended him to me. I told her of my love for Goethe and Eichendorff and she assured me that the English have great romantic poets, too.”

“And do you agree?” She straightens her back and tilts her head towards him, so that she may not feel quite as overwhelmed by his size.

He passes the volume to her, pointing to the first lines of poem.

“Unfortunately, my English is not good enough, I can’t make it sound… _es muss doch klingen wie Musik_! The last verse of the first stanza – the syllables don’t seem to fit the meter.”

He looks at her, brows softening. “Will you read it for me?”

Victoria breathes in, and suddenly her corset feels very tight. Still, she takes the book from him and begins to read, first haltingly, then falling into the rhythm of the verses.

 

 

> _“She walks in beauty, like the night_
> 
> _Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_
> 
> _And all that's best of dark and bright_
> 
> _Meet in her aspect and her eyes:_
> 
> _Thus mellow'd to that tender light_
> 
> _Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”_

 

She raises her eyes from where they’ve been fixed on the page to look into his face. Does she imagine it, or do his cheeks seem slightly flushed?

Albert smiles to himself, as if in reminiscence.

“Ahh, now I understand. It’s heav’n, not hea-ven.”

“Yes.”

“A woman like the starry skies. It has beauty, yes. This Lord Byron, he is a man of his craft,” Albert concedes and takes the book back from her. “See how the iambic changes in verse four when he talks about the meeting of dark and light in her… _wie sagt man, Antlitz_?”

“Countenance,” she retorts, bristling slightly at his sudden change from ardent listener to schoolmaster. Why can he never simply enjoy something for what it is? Why does everything have to be a lesson he can teach her?

“And he is right,” Albert adds, “There are women I’ve known who have it both, darkness and light. _Wie ein Sternenhimmel_.”

He looks wistful now, and it vexes her again. Should a suitor mention other women to someone whose hand he hopes to win? But maybe Albert does not want her, after all.

“I would think all women have it, as do all men,” she replies, haughtily.

He looks at her then, solemnly.

“ _Ja, Cousine_ ,” his stare rooting her to the spot as he speaks, “But not all of them have it in beauty.”

She swallows.

“I’ll have to tell the Duchess that I enjoyed her Lord Byron. He may be a rival to Eichendorff in feeling, at least.”

“I haven’t read much Eichendorff. He’s Mama’s favourite,” she says, unable to keep the distaste out of her voice.

Albert looks at her, imploringly.

“And if you never looked at something only because she approved of it, you might deprive yourself of much pleasure.”

He turns towards the table where he chooses a small, black volume. Her hands tremble slightly as his fingers brush hers when he hands it to her.

“If you start with anything, you must start with his _Mondnacht_.”

He clears his throat.

“You know, it always reminds me of summer nights at the Rosenau when Ernst and I would sit in the window and imagine we could see shapes in the full moon hanging over the hills.”

The way Albert talks about his childhood in Germany makes it sounds so different from the squalid, backwards place she imagines her mother has grown up in. His Coburg sounds wild and romantic, a place of fairytales, complete with a distant father and absent mother, him and Ernst as a Princes _Hänsel und Gretl_.

Victoria looks at the gold lettering on the spine.

“I did not know we had him in the library.”

“This is my copy. Please, take it.”

He sees her hesitate and is quick to assure her: “Please, I insist.”

“It’s not that. Only - my German letters aren’t very good. I have trouble deciphering the _Schrift_.”

She looks up to him once again.

“Would you please read some to me?”

\--

Albert does not understand Victoria. One minute, she is soft in his arms, her face gentle, delicate and open as he waltzes her around the room, forgetting his fear, his clumsiness. The next minute she is frowning at him, ignoring him in favour of the company of others.

Sometimes, she watches him at the piano, he can feel it. Maybe she does not approve of his playing or of his choice of music? He works hard at his proficiency of the instrument, and it is one of the few ways he can occupy himself in the drawing room without appearing a fool, where most past times seem to involve mindless chatter filled with quips and puns in a language he hasn’t yet mastered.

She watches and he can only assume she disapproves.

But when they play together, he feels as if there’s a live current between them, like the display of electricity he remembers from his university days, when the professor had made a spark fly between two rods, drawing a gasp from the lecture hall. It’s the only way he can begin to describe what exists between him and Victoria when they play _vierhändig_ , when they don’t have to speak and therefore can’t misunderstand each other, when they simply play as if they’re of one soul and one mind, their combined skill and musicality drawing a sound from the instrument he couldn’t produce on his own.

When she came upon him in the library, he tried to imply his affection, to be charming, like Ernst had told him to be. But he should have known that he is not a charmer, since he can’t seem to express himself in a way that conveys the depth of his feeling.

It had been after their dance, after she had given him the gift of her corsage, which he has kept, pressed and dried, between the pages of his journal, as a reminder of the time when she was as soft and open to him as the petals on the gardenia’s blossom.

The poem, as she read it out to him, had reminded him of how she’d been that night at the dance, dark and bright, midnight blue silk and creamy white flowers, the contrast between her pale countenance and the colour of her hair, diamond pins glinting in its shadows. She had looked so beautiful, so radiant, it had been a surprise when he’d led her to dance and discovered again how short she was, her fortitude somehow always making her appear taller.

What a fool he is forced to be, wooing but unable to speak, waiting for a woman to choose him.

Uncle Leopold has warned him that if this marriage does not come to pass, the coup that’s been so long in the making, his changes for a good match will be greatly diminished. He is only the second son and there is not much else for him than marrying advantageously.

“It is your destiny, nephew,” his uncle tells him.

But still, he cannot agree to marry her if they are not suited and she does not approve of him.

It is a ridiculous position, and every jest from her or her precious Melbourne make him feel even more out of place. He does not like to play the fool, and neither does he like to be used as a pawn in someone else’s game, but the truth of the matter is, his feelings for Victoria go deeper than that of a cousin’s. Sometimes she acts like a frivolous, silly girl, but he knows her to be different, remembers a time when she was shut away from the world and longing for freedom, longing for companionship.

He always had Ernst and she always had her mother and Lehzen, but he knows, maybe better than anyone, that that is not enough.

\--

Albert agreed to the trip behause he knew that he liked Victoria, could maybe even care for her.

As a Coburg, he had always been aware that his heart would not be his to bestow freely. At the least, he had hoped for a better fate than that of his mother and father. At best, he had hoped for companionship, a suitable partner he could share his life with. He has enough feeling of duty within him to make up the rest.

So when he had realised he truly liked his cousin, her wit and spirit, could be content in the match that had been planned since they were children, he had counted himself lucky.

The moment he sees her with those flowers in her hair, he knows that he already loves her.

He wishes then, more than ever before, that it would be possible for him to tell her of his feelings before she would share hers, so that she might be sure of his affection. But she is standing there so bravely, in her satin dress, the flowers’ white gleaming shimmer in her hair, and he knows he cannot take this moment from her, no matter how much he would like to speak.

When she struggles for the words to ask what no woman should have to ask, he does not interrupt. This is her moment, the only true choice she will make on her own, and he does not want to rush her.

“Albert-”

Her breath goes in shudders, and he realises she is shivering.

“Will you marry me?”

She is so brave, his Victoria, and he has to smile against his will. So he schools his features back to a more quiet expression as he is afraid that she will think he is mocking her.

“That depends.”

He says, and her eyes widen.

“On what?” she retorts, affronted that he would make demands.

But before he gives her his answer, he wants to kiss her first, to test the unspoken thing he suspects is between them, to pledge to her not just his hand, but his devotion.

When he finally does kiss her, he feels the current again, that living, electrical thing that played between them at the pianoforte, that he felt when they danced together, only this time he does not know where he ends and she begins. Maybe it’s like this between all lovers, maybe this is what Ernst has been going on about all these years, but Albert cannot fathom it might ever exist between himself and another woman. There’s something about Victoria, only Victoria, he knows it in the marrow of his bones as he holds her in his arms and breathes her in, heavy and sweet, her own scent mixing with the fragrance of the gardenias in her hair.

She is not his choice, he has no choice, and yet he’d always choose her.

\--

The impertinence of him, asking her to let him kiss her before he’ll accept the proposal! How dare he be so, so… when it has cost her all the courage she possesses to even utter the words that seem foreign to a woman, so strange to pass over her lips.

But he’s before her now, in the candlelight, his long beautiful form, his kind eyes rooting her in place when it feels as if she’s standing on the planks of a ship lost in the swell. And then it dawns on her, he is teasing her, her dear, beloved Albert, the man whose seriousness first displeased her, then drew her to him, teasing her!

They kiss and she is almost sure that while he may have been maneuvered into the match by her entire Coburg family, he’ll have her for herself.

“For me, this is not a marriage of convenience,” he tells her, and she is certain she loves him, how can she not, when this will surely be an inconvenience – a strategical union having turned into a love match.

They both have to laugh then, the situation absurd. She has fought them so hard, the wishes of her mother, Uncle Leopold and her relatives, but she wants to assure him, he would be her choice even among thousands of men, even though she knows so little of the world and of love: “But I have no choice.”

No choice but you, my love, she thinks.

“Neither do I.”

And then Albert kisses her again, and the world sinks away.

“So you’ll have me?” she whispers, as he lifts her up into his arms, joyfully, and she’s overflowing with happiness.

He stares at her for a moment, suspended above him in the air, their usual positions reversed.

He lowers her ever so slightly, pressing his hot lips against her throat, close to her ear, making her shiver as his words wash over her.

“ _Mein Liebes_ ,” he whispers. “ _Ich werde so glücklich sein, mein Leben mit dir zu zubringen_.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

First edition of Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff's poems, 1831.

 

German translations:

"Sanfter, Cousine" - "More gently, cousin."  
"...es muss doch klingen wie Musik!" - "...it has to sound like music, after all!"  
"...wie sagt man, Antlitz?" - "...how do you say it, countenance?"  
"Wie ein Sternenhimmel." - "Like the starry sky."  
"Ja, Cousine." - "Yes, cousin."  
"Mondnacht" - "Moonlit Night." (Probably Eichendorff's most famous poem, and one of the most famous German romantic poems.)  
"German Schrift" - old fashioned German Sütterlin lettering no longer in use today.  
"vierhändig" - playing 'with four hands', i.e. playing a piano duet on the same instrument  
"Mein Liebes, ich werde so glücklich sein, mein Leben mit dir zu zu bringen." - "My love, I will be so happy to spend my life with you." Actual thing actual Albert said to Victoria on the night of their engagement, as recorded in her (teenage) diary!


	2. A Union of Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has always associated her position as queen with the first delicious taste of freedom she has had in her young life, when it became, so she felt, entirely her own. But now, quite unlike her, Victoria wishes she were an ordinary woman. Then she’d have Albert to herself for a while and they could have time to get to know each other as lovers instead of cousins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victoria's and Albert's engagement and early marriage. Fits both the ITV show's and the historical timeline. German translations and historical sources can be found at the end of the chapter.

Most of their engagement is spent apart.  

As it is, they have not a month before he’s due to return to Coburg, to settle his affairs. They spend their time at Windsor, away from the gossip the London court entails.

She has always associated her position as queen with the first delicious taste of freedom she has had in her young life, when it became, so she felt, entirely her own. But now, quite unlike her, Victoria wishes she were an ordinary woman. Then she’d have Albert to herself for a while and they could have time to get to know each other as lovers instead of cousins.

She wishes he could simply take her back to Coburg as his bride, claim her for himself and whisk her away. She has been raised with an ideal of what a marriage should be, a wife cleaving only unto her husband, and, despite her great happiness, she has some difficulty of imagining herself and Albert in the roles. 

As queen she has many duties that lie beyond that of a wife, and for the first time they feel more than a challenge to rise to, they feel like a burden. 

They spend every minute they have roaming the park at Windsor, heady, wonderful moments of being young and in love, for the first time. They often sit at the piano too, playing, singing, Victoria having lost all desire for her usual pursuits: card games and balls, the opera. She never knew there could be such a joy as simply sitting beside Albert, making music together, creating something beautiful and true. She revels in the feeling of his warmth against her side as his hands move deftly over the keys, his hand brushing hers in passing as their voices cross.

Their companionship as well as their passion comes easy, naturally.

They steal kisses in their few truly private moments, whisper breathless promises into each other’s ears. Victoria wants to squeeze a lifetime’s worth of sweet memories into those short days, commits them all to her diary before she goes to sleep, because before she knows it he’ll be gone and she will feel so quite alone. 

It vexes her when Albert wants to talk about his position and rank, because she doesn’t want anything to spoil what they have now, because she’d rather not think of herself as Queen when they are still so fresh and new. Albert is worried about his future position of course, but his is a precarious one, as is hers, since what they are about to embark on does not truly have a precedence in history.

“Let me share your burdens,” he entreats her. “I’ll do everything in my power to not disappoint you. I so want to be a good husband to you, Victoria. Use me, draw on me for help, with any task that lies ahead.”

He says all this so sweetly and sincerely, but it betrays his ignorance of what her work entails. All the things she loves about him, his studiousness, his seriousness of manner, his ideas for social improvement, the direct way in which he never cloaks his intentions, all the things that are so un-English about him, these are also what will make him stand out like a sore thumb. So she tries to quiet his worry.

She brushes his unruly locks from his forehead as they are standing close; he looks so dreamy and wild to her now, not at all stiff and awkward.

Not when he’s with her.

“All I need from you, my angel, is to love me.”

There’s a flicker of something that goes across his face before it softens, something she can’t read yet, and then he kisses her.

\--

She worries about the silliest things, things she never thought she’d care about when she thought of him as only her slightly dull cousin. But now that he’s her heart’s desire, she wonders whether there has ever been anyone else, another girl to make his heart quicken, another pair of lips he has maybe kissed? It is entirely possible that there is someone pining for him in Coburg or perhaps Bonn, someone he’d rather have, having been pushed into this match by his father, Uncle Leopold, Mama. The thought is like the sharp pain of a cut she can’t help but touch, surprised every time at how much it hurts when she dwells on it.

It is true, he never looks twice at any of her ladies or the beauties of London society she has seen him interact with, so outwardly, there are no signs that his heart might be fixed elsewhere, but Albert, Victoria is sure, would not love frivolously. She knows, had she not been in line for the throne, he and his family might never have considered the match. What makes her desirable, above all else, is that she is Queen. But she wants him to love her for herself.

She wonders if she compares to the ones that might have come before her in Albert’s affection, her being so unskilled in the art of love. His lips were the first that have ever touched her own, but he kisses with proficiency, making her weak-kneed, as if he has experience in the matter. Victoria has not dared to ask, afraid of the answer, for surely Albert would tell her the truth. He is not one to lie to protect her feelings.  

She worries that she is too keen in his arms, too needy, but she can’t help give into him when they kiss, her mouth opening almost of its own accord to brush her tongue against his in an unchaste manner, too quick, too eager, too passionate.

What’s on her heart and mind when she’s with him she cannot contain, unwanted confessions spilling out of her as if he’s unlocked every emotion and vulnerability she thought she had buried deep within since she was a little girl. Since she had learnt that those things could be used as weapons against her.

“I used to feel so quite alone, and… lost. And I shall again, when you’re gone-”

“No, no, Victoria,” he protests, catching her hands with his own, “Now you have me. And when I return, we shall take care of each other for the rest of our lives.”

How can she not kiss him then? How can she not latch on to his lips with perhaps too much enthusiasm, pressing her body too close to his in a desperate attempt to quell the yearning inside of her?

But maybe Albert doesn’t mind: he moans softly into her mouth as she falls open to him, his arms closing firmly around her shoulders, simply drawing her closer. Then, when they part, breathlessly, he tells her of his impatience:

“I cannot await the moment when you’ll be truly mine, _Liebes_.”

Victoria thinks he might not be speaking of the marriage ceremony, because his eyes twinkle a little, a giveaway of the humour he so seldom displays, and she can’t help but sigh then, relishing the way his sturdy frame feels against her when she’s in his arms, a hint of things to come, promises of future, unknown delights.

She hopes he’ll be happy with her, when he has to sacrifice so much to be her husband, give up his home, country and family. He insists he will be and indeed he is not scant with his declarations of love and fervour - his kisses are hot enough that she’s inclined to believe him.

He does not seem to think of anyone else, and maybe there has never been another woman, after all.   

\--

The wedding is set for February, and the time for him to go back to Coburg is drawing near. Albert’s heart grows heavy when he thinks of leaving Victoria and he does not relish the task ahead: saying goodbye to his home, his country, for ever.

“And when we’re married…” he pulls her closer, draws her bottom lip between his, teeth grazing the delicate skin until she gives one of the little sighs he has become so fond of. “...We’ll never have to give each other up again.”

He looks into her eyes to see if he can detect any fear or doubt there, but she gazes up at him with an expression of complete openness and trust.

“ _Ich werde alles tun, um dich glücklich zu machen_ , _mein Herz_.”

It moves him when she speaks German with him, when he knows it is not the language of her thoughts – she often does now, when they’re alone, as if it’s a language just for them.

“I know you will.”

There are some things he can’t wait to leave behind in Germany, but he’ll miss his brother, the snowy silence of a Thüringian forest, summer nights at the Rosenau, some of his happier childhood memories, sparse as they may have been. But, he realises, he has been training for his future task for many years. And a younger son from a minor duchy must surely have an occupation, a chance to do something good. Florschütz and Stockmar, his schoolmaster and his mentor, and of course Uncle Leopold, they have all been guiding and raising him to be the kind of man the Queen of England could use as her consort. They have invested in him a broad education, a passion for liberal values and a desire for social improvements.

He just hopes he can be of service to Victoria. He hopes it is a challenge he’ll be equal to.

\--

Albert is, after all, not a flatterer, though Victoria might be persuaded otherwise, when he speaks to her of his devotion and passion.

“Lord M has assured me it is very life-like”, she tells Albert after presenting him with a miniature of herself to take with him when he has to return to Coburg tomorrow, lest he not forget her in his absence. She knows he would prefer truthfulness, and she is worried that the painter has embellished her good features and omitted some of her less favourable ones.

“I don’t think I’m a very good judge of it. What do you think, did Mr Ross get me right? He came most recommended.”

They are walking together, along the vista, her on his arm. She can almost spot the Grecian temple from here where he kissed her till her knees grew weak, the morning after the proposal, shielded from any prying eyes.

Albert takes her hand in his, stroking it. Even through her gloves, she can feel the heat of his skin.

“It is fine work. I shall cherish it and look at it whenever my spirits are low.”

“I know I’m not a great beauty,” she confesses bashfully, as he spins her around and presses her into a tree, seemingly unable to wait, peppering her neck with kisses, his hands around her waist, drawing her close. She is wrapped up in the smell of the wet autumn earth covered in fallen leaves, mingling with the sharp scent of Albert underneath his soap.

“You are to me.” He kisses her once more.

“And it is a beauty that will never fade,” he adds, as he rests his forehead against hers and stares into her eyes, his face so close to hers she cannot make out his features but only drown in the depth of his gaze.

His warm breath washes over her.

“ _Love’s not Time’s fool…_ You, _mein Liebes_ , will always be beautiful to me, not just now, in the bloom of our youth. It is your heart, your spirit, your courage that make you beautiful.”

He steals a quick kiss to her cheeks, the bristle of his moustache on her skin making her shiver, then presses his lips to her ear, turning the words into another caress.

“When we’re old, and surrounded by our children, I will still see you as you are now.”

His words turn her heart into an open, wounded thing, when she has guarded it so carefully all these years. She is elated to have found such a companion, but it also terrifies her – she is already so deeply in love with him, she would be lost if he was somehow taken from her. 

She kisses him then, more proficient in the art, something they have learnt together.

She is to be a wife, and Albert a husband, but she is also to be his queen. Maybe, she hopes, they’ll be able to separate their private life from their public one, so that behind doors, she can be just a woman, and he just a man. 

\--

When Albert is gone, Victoria throws herself into her work, but it is no avail. The lack of his presence is a dark hole, tainting all the things she used to enjoy before she knew his love. She wonders if it feels the same for him, or if the pain of having to say goodbye to all he holds dear in Germany takes prominence.

Her answer comes in the shape of a letter. It arrives a mere two days after his departure, and it already feels like an eternity. She rips it open with shaking, excited hands, devouring the lines once, then twice, pressing the letter to her heart. Her dear, dear Albert!

 

> _Dearest, deeply loved Victoria,_
> 
> _According to your wish, and by the urging of my heart to talk to you and open my heart to you, I send these lines. We arrived safely at Calais, and Lord Alfred Paget is to re-cross in a quarter of an hour, and will arrive at Windsor early tomorrow. The state of the tide and strong wind forced us to start at 2.30 in the morning, and we reached here at about 6 o’clock. Even then the Firebrand could not approach the quay, so that we decided to go ashore in a smaller boat. We both, Schenk, and all the servants were fearfully ill; I have hardly recovered yet. I need not tell you that since we left, all my thoughts have been with you at Windsor, and that your image fills my whole soul. Even in my dreams I never imagined that I should find so much love on earth. How that moment shines for me when I was close to you, but with your hand in mine! Those days flew by so quickly, but our separation will fly equally so. Ernst wishes me to say a thousand nice things to you. With promises of unchanging love and devotion,_
> 
> _Your ever true Albert_.

The words in his letters are as lovely as his words when they were face to face and they help her conjure up the moments they spent together, which she keeps like pearls in her heart. It doesn’t quell the sharp pain of their separation, but it eases the hurting of it. So she brushes off her tears and resigns herself to be cheerful and go about her business, just like before.

But at night, the rereads his words over and over again and then pens long and ardent letters to him, with perhaps too many underlined words and exclamation marks than befit a woman of her station.

\--

When they get to Wiesbaden, Albert commissions a piece of jewellery from one of the goldsmiths near the _Schloßplatz_ who is one of the Duke of Nassau’s purveyors.

He shows the craftsman the sketches of a branch of orange blossoms he made in the glasshouses at Windsor, on an afternoon when he’d wanted to draw Victoria’s portrait, but she did not have time to sit for him.

He has to pay a little extra to get the goldsmith to rush the job, but two days later, when they’re due to depart, he is able to pick up the most delicate brooch of gold leaves and tiny white flowers. He gets the good man at the shop to pack it up in a little case with an inscription and sends it off to England post haste.

\--

When the brooch arrives, Victoria has Skerrett fetch her prettiest kerchief and pin it on her. The orange blossoms are so delicate and the gold work is exquisite, but it is the inscription on the case that give the present its meaning, the thought that Albert went to all this trouble to have something personal made for her, and while he was still travelling. By now, he must have arrived in Coburg, so she writes him a long letter to thank him, using some of the gardenia water her dresser bought for her in a shop in Covent Garden to scent the stationery.

Later that night, dear Lord M compliments her on her new piece of jewellery as she has insisted on wearing it with her evening gown to dinner.  

“It is a wonderful piece, Ma’am, only outshone by the woman wearing it.”

She smiles, taking a sip of her wine. After Lord M’s initial subdued reaction to her engagement, the two of them seem to have eased back into their usual, carefree repartee.

“Thank you, Lord M. You know, you really mustn’t flatter me like that, for it will go straight to my head.”

“No Ma’am, indeed I think the Prince and I would agree on this at least. It was his gift, I understand?”

“Yes. The note said he drew the design himself, isn’t it exquisite? He’s quite the artist!”

“Indeed. There seems to be no end to his skills.” Lord M smiles, with an amount of irony she is quite willing to forgive him, this time. She is in too good of a mood.

“Orange blossoms,” he adds.  “A deliberate choice by His Serene Highness, I’m sure.”

At this, Victoria has to confess her ignorance.

“Oh, Ma’am, I only thought it was common knowledge that orange blossoms stood for… innocence, surely the finest quality in a maidenly bride.”

She smiles and thanks him for his compliment, and the conversation moves on to other subjects, but for the rest of the evening, Victoria dwells on Lord M’s words. Is that how Albert sees her then, an innocent little flower, chaste, demure? It does not ring true with what stands out in her mind when she thinks of their time together, the way she felt in his presence. But she has to admit, Albert’s gift is no gardenia, speaking of secret love, or indeed a red rose, signifying passion. She is still pondering the meaning of the gift when it is time for the ladies to retire to the drawing room.

The Duchess of Sutherland falls in step beside her as they walk down the gallery.

“It really is the most beautiful piece, Your Majesty,” she assures Victoria, maybe sensing something amiss. “Someone once told me that orange blossoms stood for eternal love in marriage,” the Duchess adds.

Victoria touches the delicate branch of gold, running her gloved fingers across the tiny blossoms.

“But I thought they symbolised innocence?”

“Well Ma’am, for some they do, but you see, they are a curious flower. My brother grows them in his glasshouse. He says they are so unusual because the plants produce the flowers alongside the fruit. Much like a good marriage, where love’s bloom and its… fruits might coexist.”

She has been wondering whether to wear a diadem in her hair for the wedding, but now Victoria has another thought. She wanted to be a simple bride, after all.

“Your brother, you say? The Earl of Carlisle?”

“Indeed, Ma’am. He has taken up residence in Vauxhall while Parliament sits.”

“Do you think he would be able to provide some flowering branches in early February?”

Harriet smiles.

“It would be an honour, Ma’am.”

\--

“Why is he asking for money and titles when he’ll be your husband? He is a younger son from nowhere.”

Lehzen’s words ring in her ear, insisting that Albert is trying to rise above his station by asking for an allowance and a title. Maybe her oldest, most trusted friend is right? After all, what could Albert want besides his status as consort?

She tells her mother as much, as they sit down for a light luncheon of cake and wine, but as usual, the Duchess does not agree with her daughter’s former governess.

“Drina, maybe in this you should not defer to the Baroness’ judgement. She may think she is acting in your best interest, but how can it be best for you to keep your husband so very far beneath you? How curious that she would say such a thing!”

“What do you mean, Mama? Lehzen surely has my interest at heart!”

“Well, I think it is ridiculous! Considering that she herself was elevated to her own prominent station by your dear Papa and me. Just think, she was born as the daughter of a simple vicar, and we raised her up with a title of her own. And you know why? We did it so she could be a respectable governess to you! Why would you deny your husband the same?”

“But Mama, Albert will surely have everything he needs once he is married to me? He does not seem to understand that he cannot simply demand things from my government like an...an absolutist ruler.”

“But is he? All I see is a young man who wants to carve out a life for himself. Tell me, Drina, would you love him if he wasn’t independent and had his own mind?”

Usually, she is not one to consider her mother’s advice over Lehzen’s, but then Lehzen has never married. And, to her credit, Mama really does care for Albert.

Her mother puts a hand over hers, resting on the table between them. Victoria notices that she is wearing the lace she gave to her as a present – she has had it made up into trim for the sleeves of her gown.

“Albert will make you a wonderful husband, and you mustn’t forget, he’s giving up any other life he might have had to be with you.”

When Victoria opens her mouth to protest, her mother is quick to assuage her:

“I don’t mean he is not prepared to do that, _mein_ _Schatz_. But it is no easy thing, I’m sure. A man needs something of his own, or else he may appear quite ridiculous.”

\--

Victoria does not truly know what awaits her until she has a conversation with the Duchess of Sutherland. Lehzen is not experienced in these matters, only telling her that her love for the Prince would guide her in all things and help her do her duty as a wife. She’d said as much with a shudder, as if something repulsive was required. But Victoria wonders if that can be true since every time she is with Albert, her body sings with pleasure and bliss and even the memory of his touch sets her on fire.

She does so want to please Albert, so she seeks out the Duchess of Sutherland’s advice.

“Duchess.”

Sat in the parlour, she invites her lady to come in and sit beside her on the settee. Harriet curtseys, as protocol demands, but surely she is also her friend, someone Victoria can ask for advice? 

“Your Majesty. I was told you wanted to speak to me.”

Victoria fidgets with the lace handkerchief in her lap, hardly being able to look at her lady-in-waiting.

“Indeed. Thank you for coming. It is a somewhat… delicate matter.”

She sighs and motions for the Duchess to sit beside her.

“You’re a married woman. I was hoping you could… counsel me in in some matters. Now that - that I’m to be married myself.”

She can’t help but blush, Lehzen not even having taught her any appropriate words to phrase the questions that keep her awake at night, when she thinks of Albert, her body grows warm and the dull ache within her is like an echo of what she remembers from their kisses and caresses.  

“It is only that… I have a somewhat limited understanding of what passes between a husband and a wife… in private.”

“Surely the Baroness… or indeed the Duchess of Kent would be better suited to-”

It is the awkwardness of the situation and the shame that she feels which make Victoria lose her composure:“Oh, dear Harriet, they’ve been quite useless, really!”

When she sees the Duchess’ startled face, she quiets down from her outburst, embarrassed. It is only that she hates being caught at a disadvantage. The gaps in her education are the biggest hindrance in her position, where so many expect so much of her with so little knowledge as to accomplish it!

“Please,” she entreats. “I only wish to… please the Prince.”

The Duchess looks at her with what seems to be a mixture of amusement and pity, then smiles.

“I do not think that Your Majesty will have any problems in that regard.”

“But how do you…?”

“Well, I have seen the way the Prince looks at you, Ma’am. You see…”

The Duchess seems to be grasping for the right words before she continues:

“Forgive me for my… impertinence, but if the marriage bed is to not only to be a duty, but also a pleasure… true… _feeling_ needs to exist between the two parties. I do not doubt that Your Majesty and His Serene Highness have it in abundance.”

“Well, me, of course, but-”

“I do not doubt the Prince’s devotion. Nor would anyone who has seen you both together.”

“I see. But- dear Harriet, there’s still the matter that I do know so very little of… of _how_ it is to be accomplished? Of what, exactly, is expected of me?”

Victoria’s cheeks burn at having to be so outspoken and she curses the fact that this can never be a topic for polite conversation. How she wishes she had had the bravery to somehow breach the subject with Albert before he left, since it had seemed to be an unspoken truth between them anyway, the passion they had both felt when they’d kissed, when they’d been in each other’s arms. 

But this she could never entrust to a letter.

“Please, my dear friend, could you be so frank as to…”

“Well as to the,” Harriet clears her throat, “the _finer_ details, Your Majesty…”

At this, the Duchess leans forward and begins to whisper in Victoria’s ear.

\--

Albert has always considered the education _dans l’amour_ he received at the hands of his father deplorable. The Duke, as everyone knows, is a philanderer and womaniser.

Besides providing both his sons with excellent tutors and being a distantly looming, but mostly absent figure for most of their childhood, he took it upon himself to take his sons along to some of the brothels he frequented in Rome, Paris and elsewhere. It was, according to his father, ‘to sample their pleasures’, since the Duke had considered this introduction part of the Grand Tour of Europe any young man of birth should have completed. But while Ernst takes after his father in his enjoyment of similar ‘delights’, these offers of sham love for money had always horrified Albert.  

True love, he feels, is not to be experienced in one of those establishments.

Maybe it is the terrible example set by his mother and father that has made him so unsusceptible to the advances he has so far received. Or that he has seen what numerous trysts can do to a young man’s health, not to speak of the fate of the poor women who suffer the consequences – indeed he is so concerned about Ernst that he has even spoken to him on the subject, counselled him to not marry until his condition has improved.

It is not as if girls had never smiled at Albert, before Victoria, as if there had never been a little flirtation, even though most of his time was taken up with his studies, not society events. But nothing ever went beyond a few looks, a dance, some verses written in abstract admiration but never sent. He is not easy around women, the way Ernst is. Maybe it was the longing he has always had for true companionship, the union of souls described by the poets he so admires, that has kept him safe from getting into trouble with the fairer sex. Maybe it was the deep and abiding faith instilled in him by his grandmother, the Dowager Countess.

The lack of love in his parents’ marriage, he knows, was also to blame for his mother’s infidelity. And can he really fault the poor woman, having been humiliated repeatedly by the improprieties of his father, for having sought solace in the arms of other lovers?

He can forgive Mama her unfaithfulness, but what he can’t quite forgive her is that her actions left him and Ernst without a mother.

But Albert is rather determined to make a different life for him and Victoria, a different marriage altogether. She is to never doubt his affection for her, his unwavering devotion. He vows that their children, when they come, will not want for love or guidance.

It is this wish to please her that makes him seek Ernst’s advice on one subject – because no matter what one might say about his brother, he does not seem to lack proficiency in it – to learn the ways of pleasing a woman.

It is, however, a difficult subject to broach.

“Ernst?”

“Hmm?”

“There’s something that’s been on my mind.” He clears his throat, willing his voice to utter the words. “I want… to be a good husband to Victoria.”

Ernst looks up from his notes, surprised. They’re at the piano, his brother leaning onto it in shirtsleeves as he takes notes, Albert sitting at the keyboard. They’ve been working on a little gift for Victoria, some rhymes of Ernst’s that Albert has set to music. It is called “ _Der Orangenzweig_ ”, a jolly little poem about a bride adorned by a crown of orange blossom flowers, since she has told him how fond she is of her brooch.   

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Ernst’s eyes twinkle in jest. “Uncle Leopold and good old Stockmar and _even_ father have put a lot of effort into grooming you into the perfect consort, after all.”

“I’m serious!”

“Well, so am I.”

His brother smiles at him, softer now and puts down the pen.

“Albert, you love Victoria. You’ll make her an excellent husband, someone she can lean on and share her duties with. I’ve seen you poring over all those books Stockmar sent you, the treatises on British constitution and history. You have the quickest mind of anyone I know.”

It touches Albert, to hear his brother speak so highly of him, when he is usually the subject of his teasing.

“But I’m not speaking of the duties… of the consort to the Queen. I’m speaking of the duties of a husband to his wife.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“As you know…,” Albert runs his hands along the keys, seeking out the high G, the one that’s always just a little stuck. “… I have no prior experience in these matters to prepare me for my new role.”

“None?” Ernst asks, trying very hard to keep the amusement out of his voice, and failing.

“None.”

“But you have kissed her, yes?”

Albert stares at the sheet music, avoiding Ernst’s eyes. His face feels flushed above his tight cravat.

“As many times as I could.”

He steals a glance at his brother and now Ernst looks like the cat that got the cream: he learns forward, not even caring whether his shirtsleeves might smudge the score they’ve been working on.

“And what was it like, kissing the Queen of England?”

Albert does not like it when his brother is impertinent, but he supposes he has brought it on himself. He clears his throat, feeling foolish as he tries to put it into words.

“Like… when you’re playing a duet and suddenly the music comes together… _wie Zauberei_.”

“And?” Ernst coaxes.

Albert swallows.

“Like I did not know where I ended and where she began.”

Ernst stares at him, eyes wide, then smiles mischievously.

“Well that, little brother, is a start.” He gathers up the sheet music as if he’s suddenly remembered urgent business. “Don’t worry, leave the rest of your… _training_ up to me! Let’s go out tonight, this is something we can’t accomplish in the drawing room. One last night on the town, like when we were just _zwei Studenten_ , yes? Be ready to leave tonight after supper. Then we will complete your education.”

And with that, he leaves the room.

\--

Albert is shocked to find out, a few hours later, on the eve of his departure for England, that Ernst’s approach to education takes after Father’s.

At first he curses his brother and is about to insist that they leave, but then he realises that maybe Gretchen can fill in the gaps in his knowledge where Ernst only offered caddish quips and male bravado.

Better, he thinks, to take his lesson from the horse’s mouth and have the poor woman earn an honest hour’s work.  

He knows he should be cross with his brother, but afterwards, Albert silently thanks him for it. He leaves the brothel with his honour intact, copious notes and a yearning for Victoria in his heart. 

\--

He is busy packing up family mementos to take with him to his new country, when he comes across her picture. Thankfully it is his brother that catches him with it in his hands, not his father.

“Victoria?” Ernst inquires, maybe having seen something in his face.

“Mama.”

The mere word used to fill Albert with longing. He doesn’t remember her leaving, doesn’t really remember much about her at all, except a few subliminal memories: the feeling of soft arms around his face as someone leant down to kiss him, the scent of perfume clinging to him as he fell asleep. Things he might have made up. The face on the miniature in his hands is that of a beautiful stranger. But he remembers the time afterwards, when her name was never spoken again and he used to crawl into Ernst’s bed at night when he felt so lonely and confused, crying into his brother’s nightshirt.

When Ernst tells him of the last memories he has of their mother, watching her son play from afar, tears rise to Albert’s eyes, unbidden. He thought he had long forgotten to cry for the mother he never really had.

His brother is right, it had been easier to pretend she didn’t love her sons, that she had cared more for her own happiness than that of her children’s. But he knows that she had had no choice but to leave her sons behind. Father had simply waited to be able to divorce her when she’d come into her title and estate, not allowing his lively wife the same liberties he chose to take for himself.

Still, Albert’s hurt and understanding of what has happened will always be that of a little boy’s, no matter how much he may have grown up in the meantime. Maybe when he becomes a father himself, if God should grant him that blessing, he’ll be able to heal that wound with his love for his own children.

He puts the miniature down. What he shall take with him of his Mama is Ernst’s memory, not the stranger’s face.

Instead, he chooses the most lifelike of his brother’s portraits, a small painting in a simple frame that seems to capture Ernst’s vivacity and humour and puts it with his things to be sent to England.

\--

He walks up to the altar to the rousing chorus from Händel’s Judas Maccabeus: _See, the Conqu’ring Hero Comes!_

He knows his _Liebes_ has chosen this music because of his admiration for Händel but also because the life of the man was a German-British success story.

“And you shall be too, my angel,” Victoria had told him, when she’d sent for him, this morning. Her hair had already been done, prettily framing her face, but she’d worn only a simple day dress.

“Is this not bad luck?” He had asked her, referring to her insistence of meeting him on the morning of their wedding, but she had not cared.

“We must begin as we mean to go on,” she had said and kissed him. “Together.”

Albert knows he is no hero, but him and Victoria shall, as he will vow to her, conquer all difficulties side by side. Still, coming down the aisle, an unusually solemn Ernst on his right, the gravity of the act about to commence makes him stand up even straighter in his gala uniform.

At the altar his face is towards the choir, but from the current that suddenly goes through the crowd assembled he knows that the bride must have arrived, even though he cannot see her. As he waits for her, his Victoria, the music swells around him, within him, and the moments seem to stretch to eternities, until she has finally reached his side.

He is almost too shy to fully look at her, but when he does, she takes his breath away. She is resplendent in a gown of cream coloured silk, a froth of orange blossoms in her hair and the veil flowing down her small form. The only splash of colour is the sapphire brooch he gave her yesterday: “Once, I deprived you of your corsage. I thought this might be a fitting repayment. It reminded me of your eyes, _mein Liebes_.”

Her eyes had welled up at the sight of the brooch and she’d promised she’d treasure it. It gives him pride to see it on her now. 

It is, however, her face that is the crowing beauty of Victoria as a bride, luminous, glowing, her large eyes swimming with unspoken emotion.

The first part of the marriage ceremony, when the Archbishop speaks of the marriage covenant as ordained by God, is a blur to Albert, his every sense being taken in by Victoria, only Victoria. He doesn’t look at her fully, his eyes fixed on the altar, but she is by his side and it’s almost as if he can feel the heat, the sheer presence emanating from her.

When the question is put to him whether he’ll have her as his wife, he manages to respond with “I will,” his voice betraying a calm that is so at odds with his inner state. Victoria’s affirmation to her own question rings loud and clear, her voice like a beautiful bell struck with confidence.

He is thankful then, for rites and liturgies, words prepared and carefully chosen through the ages to vow her his devotion, his love, his service, when he’d not have words of his own.

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

The world seems to sink away as he puts the band on her finger, her eyes deep blue pools of trust. The Chapel is filled to the last seat and yet it’s as if she’s the only person there with him, and he does not dare to break their eye contact through the promises, as if that would somehow render them void if she didn’t know he was speaking them only to her.

“With my body, I thee worship.”

As he sees her before him, moments before she’ll be forever his, he truly understands the import of those words: how their union will not only be one of souls, but indeed of bodies, coming together in what is, at least in the Church of England if not in his own Lutheran tradition, a sacrament.

He face grows even softer as she takes in his words.

“And with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

More important than the promises now, Albert thinks, are all the days and ways in which he means to keep them.

\--

At their wedding, Victoria is taken back to the other solemn occasions in her life: when she first received the Eucharist at her confirmation and when she was anointed Queen.

She has been raised to be religious, of course, but she still remembers being surprised by the profoundness of both these moments, of something otherworldly passing through the gestures and words of the priest: each time she was altered and rendered to never be the same as before. Something changed then and something changes now, too. This service, the same as for any other couple in the Church of England, makes her an ordinary woman and Albert an ordinary man.

She listens to her beloved’s solemn vows, sees the seriousness on his face.

They’ll only ever do this once.

She promises Albert to forsake all others, to keep herself only unto him. The Archbishops speaks his words and joins their hands and she is transformed once again, from girl to wife.

\--

The first days of their marriage are spent in a state of bliss. Everything seems new now, different, because they do it and share it together. Such simple pleasures as having a meal or sleeping or waking up in the morning are utterly changed for the fact that Albert is there, sharpening her delight in things, deepening her every joy.

And of course, there's the alchemy she had felt to be between them, the spark now turned to flame, opening her eyes to new, unexpected delights, the act of two bodies becoming one.

Albert’s meticulous studiousness, it turns out, translates into his skill as a lover. The first few days she can hardly bring herself to leave her marriage bed, wanting to lose herself in him.

At work, at her desk, going through her boxes, she daydreams of him, where his lips have been the previous night, this morning. His tongue has delved into places hitherto unknown to her, has turned her into quite the new being. She tries to read through the document in front of her for the fifth time, but again its contents escape her. Her whole being is taking up with Albert, only Albert.

When he turns up at the door to her study she has a visceral reaction to the sight of him, an all body sensation, and she wonders if she has conjured him up by the power of her thought. Then he smiles at her, and it feels as if they are the only people to know the secret of the world’s turning, the thing that permeates everything and gives it meaning.  

“ _Guten Morgen_ , _meine liebe Frau_ ,” he tells her.

“Good morning, my love,” she replies. She pushes back her chair and joins him at the door, where he proceeds to wrap his arm around her, the warmth of him palpable even through the many layers of their clothing.

Albert looks down at her lovingly.

“How is your work coming along? Anything I could be of assistance with?”

She sighs, fiddling with the lapels of his coat.

“You know, I think I am quite finished for the morning. I shall go for a walk before luncheon. Will you accompany me?”

Of course, the walk turns out to be the most exquisite kind of torture, as she is alone with him, but still unable to act on the feelings he stirs up within her. The privacy they have in the gardens permits a few increasingly passionate kisses, but nothing more. It would not do for the Queen to retire to bed with her husband like a common courtesan in the middle of the day.

“I wish it was evening already,” she sighs, which earns her a chuckle from Albert, and when she glares at him, he schools his features into a more serious expression. But by now she can tell from the slight quiver around his lips that he is amused.

“This shall be your punishment,” Victoria whispers in his ear, before she takes the lobe of it between her teeth and bites it, gently.

Judging by the way his hands tighten their grip around her waist and the change in his breathing, it has its desired effect.

It does, however, also necessitate another lap around the pond for Albert to compose himself before they can walk in together.

Serves him right.

\--

Their bodies, it seems, know the truth of things before their minds can catch up with it. The body does not lie.

No matter how often they might clash about issues of her office, his position, his place in things, no matter how often they might squabble, her getting so vexed, so aggravated that she might even lash out and say hurtful things, him walking off to leave her in a sulk – their bodies are still always drawn to each other, not being able to deny the love underneath that gives rise to all their passion.

So, while many of their days are spent in disagreement, while their conversations might turn from flirtatious and stimulating to frustrating at a moment’s turn as they are trying to work out what it means to be married, their bodies already know.

It reminds Victoria of the times when they would first play together, at the piano, hands crossing and touching, in perfect accord. She still thought she detested him then, thought him a prig and a bore, but her body would sing with the delight of being with his, performing an altogether different duet with his own.

She has discovered that he can undo her, make her forget any anger and frustration at him being so obstinate, with the touch of his fingers, the softness of his lips and the stroke of his tongue in secret places she has no names for.

“Please, Albert,” she sighs, and he never denies her _that_ particular wish, always gives into her, teasing her nearly to the end but eventually succumbing to her demands.

The first few times of lovemaking are clumsy and fast and leave her wanting more, him having desired her too much maybe, both being so inexperienced. Albert always apologizes, but how could he ever think he would disappoint her in his love? What it does is make her proud, that he never had another woman, that he wanted her so much he couldn’t contain his fervour, that they are learning the way of this together.  

And learn it, they do, since diligence is one of Albert’s best qualities.

All she wishes, prays, it that they’ll have a few months to themselves. She, however ignorant she might have been of the ways of flesh, is aware of how children come to be and if she and Albert carry on in this fashion, pregnancy can surely not be avoided.

\--

Albert was warned by Uncle Leopold that many women would not enjoy lovemaking to the same degree as men, that while their passions could be roused, they were not as frequent or as ardent as a man’s.

“A good husband must be patient and respectful of his wife’s sensibilities. Victoria is young and innocent, Albert. Women are so.... delicate.”

To his great surprise and delight, his Uncle’s assessment of a woman’s passion, or at any rate Victoria’s, is proven wrong.  

They cannot seem to keep away from each other, Albert eager to learn all her ways in which he may please her, Victoria ever willing to lose herself in his embraces. They come together so often during the first few weeks, are so incessant in their desires, that he is worried that he might hurt her, that she might suffer from some… discomfort.  

One morning, in the early dawn, when she has woken him with her kisses, he wants to spare her another intrusion since she must surely feel a little sore. Instead, he takes great care to kiss her to his heart’s content, stroking her above her night gown, playing with the tips of her lovely breasts through the thin linen softly, like the sweetest music, drawing a string of _pleases_ from her lips. He knows he can serve her just as easily in this fashion.

She does utter small noises of protest, which he ignores, just as he does her hands on his buttocks, urging him against her. Instead, his finger chase her pleasure, from her breasts to that little swollen nub at the top of her sex, still atop her nightgown. He can tell she is nearing her crisis from the sound of her sighs.  

“No,” she breathes, “no, please… inside.”

Finally, Albert gives into her then, her hips bucking impatiently underneath his hand, her breath so quick. He follows her lead when she tugs up her nightgown insistently and pulls him towards her, into the valley of her thighs.

He slips into her with a moan, already so wet.

When he moves within her, Victoria draws in a hiss, her sweet brow furled over clenched-shut eyes. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard her make before.

He is horrified: “ _Mein Liebes_ , I am hurting you-” he stammers, attempting to pull out of her embrace.

But her eyes fly open, her pupils fat and wide, and her hands come up on his hips, pulling him back, closer, further into her.

“No, my angel, please, I just…” she sighs and writhes under him, as he sinks home, deeper now, kissing her womb with his cock. He can’t help but twitch inside her, already so close. It seems that he, too, has not grown tired of this. 

“I just need you so much. Ahhh, yes…” she moves her hips again, so he’s buried to the hilt within her, so he feels the entrance of her womb brushing against his tip once more. “Yes, _there_.”

“Victoria, I can’t-” he fears that if she won’t still her hips, he’ll not be able to control himself.

But she doesn’t heed his protest, just buries her hand in his hair, draws his lips down to the dusky peak of her breast, visible through the white linen, beseeching him to close his mouth around it and suckle. When he realises she is gasping from desire, not pain, he cannot anymore control the snap of his hips. He surges against her again and again, into her silkiness growing ever wetter, ever softer, until he draws an even sweeter sound from her, until she begins to shudder around him in her release, dying the small death they have gone through together so often already, him following her lead.

Afterwards, as they lie together content and exhausted, his half-softening cock still pulsing inside of her, he cannot help but wonder if he’s gotten her with child already, their coupling so frequent and so enthusiastic.

The thought fills him with even more love for her.

He draws her towards him with a kiss, thinking them quite married now, a union of bodies and souls.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Miniature of Queen Victoria, by William Ross, created in November 1839 after V&A's engagement. The Queen commissioned it as a 'picture for dearest Albert' after he had gone back to Coburg and it was intended as a present for him. Source: Royal Collection Trust.

Albert's letter, written from Calais, just a couple of days after he had left Windsor to return to Germany in preparation for the wedding the following February. Written in German. I have used the English translation of this letter, otherwise it is original. Source: http://www.queen-victorias-scrapbook.org/, a website provided by the Royal House.

Orange blossom style brooch made from gold and porcelain; the inscription reads: "Sent to me by dear Albert from Wiesbaden, November 1839" Source: Royal Collection Trust.

"Der Orangenzweig", sheet music written by Prince Albert in December 1839, during V&A's engagement. Words by Prince Ernest. It reads: "The Orange Blossom Branch (a ballad) for his dear Victoria from her true Albert, Gotha, 31st December 1839." Source: Royal Collection Trust.

With her wedding gown, Victoria wore this sapphire and diamond brooch, an early wedding present from Prince Albert. It is still worn by women of the Royal family today. Source: http://orderofsplendor.blogspot.de/2012/02/sunday-brooch-prince-alberts-sapphire.html.

 

German translations:

 _“Ich werde alles tun, um dich glücklich zu machen, mein Herz.”_ \- "I will do anything to make you happy, my love."  
_"Schloßplatz"_ \- the palace square in the centre of Wiesbaden.  
_"mein Schatz"_ \- German endearment, literally "my treasure".  
_"Der Orangenzweig"_ \- "The Orange Blossom". A number of Albert's compositions can be found in the Royal Collection's online archive but they have also been published. From the printed version it is clear that the music is Albert's but it was his brother Ernst who wrote the lyrics.  
_"...wie Zauberei"_ -  "...like magic."  
_"zwei Studenten"_ \- "two students"  
_"Guten Morgen, meine liebe Frau"_ \- "Good morning my dear wife."

 


End file.
